Cathartik
by Frawley
Summary: Spike confronts Buffy about the path she’s on, and muses over his own relationship with her. Inspired and driven by the song "Cathartik" by The Tea Party.


Title: Cathartik   
Author: Frawley   
Date: 31st December, 2001 

Category: Songfic   
Spoilers: Everything up to "Wrecked" is fair game. Mostly major S5/S6 plot stuff. 

Summary: Spike confronts Buffy about the path she's on, and muses over his own relationship with her. Inspired and driven by the song "Cathartik" by The Tea Party. 

Comments: My second fic based on (or "guided by", would be a better phrase) a song from The Tea Party. This one's off their album The Interzone Mantra's from 2001. It was supposed to be more of a vignette, similar to my last fic, "The Halcyon Days" (my only other songfic at this point), but it grew out of control... my apologies if it's too angst filled/sappy/romantic or simply too much – or not enough. The second of three works based on songs I've been hearing a lot lately. 

It looks like this trio of songfics is actually going to happen – the final one will be "Mantra", again by The Tea Party. I had considered a couple tracks by Filter, but they just didn't work as well – so I'll leave them for future reference. I have no idea when the third will be done (or better yet started), but they're only linked superficially, so you needn't feel anything is missing. 

Disclaimer: Joss owns most of it, I lay claim to the scraps. FOX can sod off. 

* * *

**CATHARTIK - by Frawley**

  


* * *

_try to change_

Hunter, hunted. He'd slipped from one to the other unknowingly (and thus not unwillingly, for he never had a chance to rail against the transition), and now here he was – reacting instead of acting, still dangerous yet not deadly. Most of the time. 

Changed ever so much, but not enough. 

_i never wanted to be a simple man_   
_i'd rather live all my days as a lion_   
_than a thousand as a lamb_   
_i only wanted to see_   
_what would happen to me_   
_if i followed the road_   
_that leads to the palace we all seek_

Not enough for acceptance, for her to embrace him fully, completely. He was still a predator to her, something to be wary of no matter how strong the attraction. The pull between them. It might help her across a chasm of unhappiness, but it wasn't enough to truly mend her heart, or her soul. Nor would it necessarily make up for his lack of one, though he'd do his damnedest to prove otherwise. 

William the Bloody had never seen a problem with the predator label – had reveled in it since his real soddin' life had begun, after the end of his rather sorry existence as a prim and proper English gentlemen. **_Prim, proper_** – they were words for **_weak_**, and all rang true of the poet that had gone before. Yet now, after a century of being the apex predator on the food chain, and a few years being caged, forced to exist contrary to his nature, he desired something else. He'd changed unknowingly at first, thinking he was still fighting the curse of technology embedded deep in his cranium. 

Now he yearned for change. Wanted it, desperately. 

All in the name of love. 

He was not so arrogant as to think the task would be simple, however. 

_did you come here lamenting what you missed_   
_overcome and seduced by this_   
_the beautiful abyss_   
_what did you come here to see_   
_what are you trying to be_   
_you're like a shadow that swallows life_   
_now you're crawling over me_

It was said love – a girl so infuriating at times it floored him, even after all these years – that he was seeking out this night. Every night, in all honesty, whether he actually went to her or not. It had been the case for over a year now, even when she wasn't... around. No matter how he started out, in the end it was her whom he sought. 

His love, his **_luv_**, the pulse within his undead veins, for despite the impossibility of the physical act, his blood seemed to sing when she was near. It sang now. Led him to her. 

So he followed, and found her. Vibrant blonde hair flapping gently in the light breeze, dressed completely unsuitably for the cool night air – short black skirt, thin white blouse that was tight in all the right places, black scarf worn more for fashion than for warmth – she stood standing with her back to him, some ten paces or so across the green, beneath the shade of a Willow tree. Staring at a monument before her, reading simple words: 

**Buffy Anne Summers**

**1981 – 2001**

**Beloved Sister, Devoted Friend**

**She Saved the World**

**A Lot**

It wasn't all that odd finding one's love in a graveyard, not for him nor anyone, really. After all, it was where loved ones were kept, once their part had been played out. Was where they were remembered, with ghastly monuments and headstones (much like the one his luv now scrutinized) that cost far more than any benefit provided by them might be worth, with words of sorrow and reminiscence; heartfelt but truncated, far too short to tell the whole tale, gut-wrenching all the same. Chiseled into stone, feigning immortality, they might outlive a generation or so, but like memory, they would be wiped clean after a few hundred years. The trickle of well-wishers paying their respects would dry up. And just who the **_beloved sister, devoted friend_** had been would be forgotten. 

Except by him. 

It wasn't that odd finding one's love in a graveyard – only one expected to find **_lost_** loved ones there. One expected death. Expected him. Not her. Not Buffy. Not a living girl, never a living girl who felt most at home amongst the dead. Who would expect that? 

How alive was she, though? Simply going through the motions, at best. That's all she was doing. And when even that became tiresome? 

Hence he was less than surprised at finding her there, staring at what had once been her own grave. Cozy condo six feet deep, well insulated, but not much as far as spaciousness was concerned. Just a tad damp. A plot out of which she had been forced to claw, hand over hand; frightened, alone, unable to breathe or think or scream, not given the gift of understanding or explanation or even a bloody shovel. 

He was not surprised, but he was dismayed, although in all honesty part of him had expected Buffy to find her way back to this spot sooner, weeks or even a month earlier. 

Instead it was now, just another cold night in December, a few months after her resurrection. He suspected he knew the why of both the timing and the reasoning – the latter, he would soon challenge her on, the former, well... 

The prospect of the Holidays without her Mum. Red's dalliance with darker, seedier realms best left untouched by the likes of mortals, at least those in the White Hat camp. The pressures of living a lie, going through the motions – despite most of her secrets being a little less secret these days. The responsibilities of playing surrogate mother to a sister just a handful of years younger than herself – a sister who was not a sister but something less and something much, much more. And likely a certain midnight rendezvous with none other than himself. 

Now it was time for somewhat of a tumble. 

"Slayer." Just one word. It always drew her attention. He suspected – nay, knew – she'd come to hate that label, which was good. Being too content was just as dangerous as the path she was now on. 

Only when he said it this night, his usual accompanying sneer – the word was best used as a barb – was absent. There'd be no baiting or verbal sparring this eve. 

"Whatcha ponderin', luv?" he inquired, despite already knowing. He could read her, had always been able to do so, even before loving her, and the love – so blinding in all other regards – didn't cloud that ability. 

When she turned to him, anger flared within. At himself, for not having sensed or at the very least smelt her tears, at her for what she was doing to the both of them. 

Still he couldn't say a word, for a moment. He simply looked at her, lost himself in her sorrow, in her red-brimmed eyes, glancing now and then at tear-stained cheeks, taking note of the little pale trails running down each side of her face. Tiny rivers of misery eroding her otherwise perfect portrait. 

"Buffy-" he started, yet realized that this was one of the rare times where he didn't have anything to say. He'd thought he had – and knew he'd be back on track in a moment's time – but in this instant Spike was speechless. A rare occurrence in a life that spanned over a century. 

For once, however, Buffy Summers, his Slayer, displayed an ability to read into him. It was she who got the ball rolling, though it didn't make the task ahead any easier for him. 

"If I died again... would they bring me back?" The question was posed with the innocence of a child. 

He suppressed a growl. 

"No, pet. Even if they wanted to... I wouldn't let them. Not again. But they wouldn't. They know now..." He trailed off. It was enough. He didn't want to reassure her... not of that, not really. 

"Ok." was all she replied. Distant. She was so distant, and would be more so soon if he couldn't reach her. 

"Don't", he said, leaving the rest unsaid, as was the case in so many of their conversations. It seemed they had always been able to communicate in this fashion, even as enemies, or reluctant allies – able to know what the other was thinking, he perhaps more than the Slayer. It was incredible when they battled together. He found it somewhat amazing that even before Love entered the picture, there had been such link. He'd only begun to think on it recently. Just like with his ability to read her... Spike had always had a knack for reading people, ferreting out emotions especially, and communicating without words, instead with a look or a glance or simple posture, but with Buffy it was something special. Something Grand. 

Except it sometimes failed in the most simple of situations (though never when it mattered), in which case he was stuck like a blubbering schoolboy around her. Or, more accurately, she acted like an annoyed schoolgirl, unable to read him. Pissed off Valley Girl, something she could unleash when she really wanted to, although it was a mask, far from her true self. 

Tonight, however, was not one of those situations. Not that it helped in the end. This would not be an exchange that would be easy for either of them. Still, he had to go on. Simply had to get it out in the open. Had to force her to face... things. Face him, perhaps. 

He'd try to change. Had tried, would keep trying. In this, though... 

"You might think it simple, but it's not. And it's not the way back." 

There. It was a start. Not half spoken yet understood. Blatantly in the open, and that was needed, this time. 

"No? Why not? Slayer's have a death wish, right Spike? You said it yourself. Practically taunted me with it, in all that talk of your One Good Day. Only it was two, for you. Death wish... You used it, took advantage of it, with the others." No need for her to mention which others. "And I-" She stumbled with the admission. "I felt it, just a little. I didn't want to admit it, then..." She thought back to that night. Thought of Spike recounting how he had disposed of not one but two Slayers during his relatively short time as a Vampire. Could nearly see the pleading, and the urgency, in their eyes. She had denied the death wish then, but couldn't now. 

"It's so strong." She nearly whispered. "And this, all this," Buffy indicated everything and nothing with a nod, "is so hard". 

He'd bore witness to a very similar speech not long after her return. He let her continue though, waiting for the new verse. 

"So what if I don't come back from patrol one night?" She didn't leave him time to answer, not that he was ready yet. "It wouldn't be entirely unexpected. Every Slayer has her expiration date. I've done better than most, lasted longer... I miss it so much, Spike..." She was near whisper again. "I miss it so much." 

Tears were welling up around her eyes once more – but again it served only to anger him. Further, this time. He refused to watch his Slayer like this. She captured innocence like no other, and her weakness called out to the world, made her precious, something he needed to show her, make her understand – but this was too much. She was no wilting flower. She was a falcon, a hunter, a predator, in his eye. 

Change would have to wait, for tonight. He couldn't hold back any longer. 

He flew at her then, took her by the shoulders, and shook her. **_Hard_**. Rough. Just once, but it was enough. She gaped at him, too startled, too vulnerable perhaps, to react. 

"Damn it, Buffy!" He yelled, then took a step back. Peered down into her eyes. The look he gave her was not tender, however, tenderness would be for later. 

"Listen to me, Slayer, listen good" he hissed. He had her full attention now. "Should you even think of holding back one night... of taking the easy way out – I'll kill them all." His eyes did not contradict the harsh promise. "Every one of them. You friends, this entire godforsaken city – they'll bleed beneath me. I'll slaughter the lot of 'em, women, children, everything that walks or crawls. I'll paint this bloody town blood red, tear everything apart, and the soddin' chip won't do a damn thing to stop me." Again, there was not a hint of anything but truth in his eyes, and he nearly screamed his final words at her. "Know this, Slayer! I'd be too far gone for it to matter, I will find a way, I'll take them all. Every last one of them". 

She was speechless, and he toned it down finally. 

"All of them. Except Dawn. I love her too, you know it. She'll live, and probably she'll hate me. But she'll never forgive you, for leaving her again. Willingly". And there. It was out. 

"You were so full, of life, love... now you seem a shadow. And I don't know why. That doesn't mean you quit, Buffy. It means we try and fix it. It means you let me in, let your friends in, your sister..." He didn't know what to say, then. Had said his peace, and needed to wait on her. 

It didn't take long. She collapsed into him. This time, her tears didn't infuriate him. He felt very much like crying himself. 

_the time's come again_   
_it's nearing the end_   
_but i feel no shame_   
_do you feel the same_   
_because i know i'll be alright_   
_if i make it through tonight_   
_well i swear i'll try to change_   
_once again_

He'd needed to say it. He wasn't proud of it. But it was out, and some other time he'd go back to trying to play the ideal that he wasn't. For now, he was very much the monster – more or less – that he'd always been. One driven by love and passion alone (except when hunger came calling, which was nearly nightly, but nevertheless...). 

Spike simply knew they'd reached a turning point. More importantly, she'd reached a turning point. Maybe their night in the abandoned building had been a revelation, but it had only changed things between each other. It hadn't changed the mess that was her current existence. Hadn't healed her pain, simply numbed it for a while. She had felt, but only for a night. She still kept so much inside, couldn't let loose... 

Now she had a choice, perhaps just in time, for she couldn't go on like this forever. She had to choose now – as Red had so dourly put it in Rita Hayworth & The Shawshank Redemption (he'd perused the book and caught the movie), it was time to get busy livin', or get busy dyin'. 

_try to change_

He'd try and force her to choose the former, even if it made him more of a monster. Or maybe it made him less, that he cared so much about a woman, enough to ruin all hope of being with her. Spike didn't care, didn't want to think of it, instead needed to tend to the girl currently soaking his shirt with her tears amidst a graveyard in the middle of a December night. In front of her own grave, no less – and it occurred to him then how odd it was that the headstone was still untouched, grave still unearthed. Then again – welcome to Sunnyhell. Over a dozen cemeteries, groundskeepers with high mortality rates and low motivation levels – should he have expected anything less? If it hadn't taken place here, this scene would have gone down somewhere else. Best for it to have happened here, where they were both strangely at home. Where she was **_strangely_** at home, and he **_was_** at home. 

She seemed so innocent here. 

_innocence is a face that always lies_   
_innocence is a wish for some_   
_but its something i can't buy_   
_what are you trying to prove_   
_so many mountains to move_   
_and all your demons are heaven sent_   
_my lost cathartik friend_

Her innocence drew loyalty. It had been her strength for years. It had drawn him, who had been her sworn enemy, wanting nothing more than to bathe in her blood, feast upon her. Where other Slayers built up walls, reigned in emotion, shutting out family and friends from worlds they surely could never understand, she clung to her companions as if they were a lifeline. Which they were. One she now had only a feeble grasp of as she instead tried to push them beneath the surface. 

Innocence was not something he could return to her, though, nor was it something he could pretend to take part in. It just wasn't in the cards. The time for lies was well past, those Buffy had let slip over the past few months alone were bad enough, blocking out her friends... there were no easy answers. The road ahead would be treacherous, pretending otherwise wouldn't change a thing. The world was harsh, it was cruel, and living in it would continue to be hell for her, for a long time to come. 

"Nothing says you can't take time off" he offered, and it surprised her enough that she choked back her sobs at last. She peered up at him, as if searching out whether he was simply humoring her. "This bloody town... it's just another. There's a hundred little burgs, true, lacking a Hellmouth, but still with their own problems – this is just the tip of the ice berg. And do you really think everything will go to hell if you take some time off? Find yourself?". 

She didn't know what to think, actually. 

"It didn't, when you were – gone. It was a blazin' mess when you came back, packed to the rafters with those tossers on bikes, but for months it was under control." It was pretty much the truth. Aside from the biker gang, the Scoobies had taken care of most everything. The world didn't end. Except his. "It was unbearable for your friends, without you," he carried on, not having it in him to include just how unbearable it had been for himself, how only Dawn and the occasional intervention by one of her chums had kept him going, "but the town got along. It'll do so again." 

Her response was calculated – something her training as a Slayer provided for. "And if the next big bad comes along? There's no guarantee." 

"There never is." Oh how unoriginal, but still, there never will be a guarantee, he thought, not for her. Wish I may, wish I might – it didn't matter, he couldn't control the whims of Lady Luck no matter how much he wanted to. 

"All of what you've lost – maybe there's a higher purpose. Maybe it's fate. Maybe you just keep rolling craps. You've still loved more than most, as much as you've lost, pet. There's no easy way out, no avoiding your demons – but you can at least face them on your own terms." He sighed. He wasn't sure he was breaking through, reaching her. "Even just a little at a time. A moment each day. Then maybe a few days. You need to rebuild, Buffy." 

_try to change_

And here she was peering up at him again, so much like a doe caught in the headlights. If it wasn't for the innate sense of deadliness she possessed, that rolled off her in waves even in the most spent, submissive stance, he'd think of her as pure innocence, embodied. But he knew better. 

Her two halves needed so badly to come together. An amalgamation of darkness and light – not unlike their own twisted relationship. The Slayer and Buffy Summers. Hunter and Innocent Child. Together they'd be less than innocent, but they'd be honest. They could be whole, be the girl she was before – before her Mother's passing, before her own. 

He was overjoyed, then, with her next words: 

"Help me, Spike." 


End file.
